


And Then

by Neffititi



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4511994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffititi/pseuds/Neffititi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after S4. With Shaw in Greer's hands, the Machine down, and Team Machine on the run, how can Root and Shaw defeat the Samaritan with the help of the others, and find each other again? Shaw x Root. Rated M for a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story takes after Season 4 finale. I intend to write this as my version of Season 5, so not only Root and Shaw but other characters will be involved as well.**

**I will explain how Finch, Root and Reese escaped, and what the Samaritan, and Greer, wants from Shaw as the story goes. Not sure if I'll include Elias and Dominic, but even if I do write their part, probably they won't have as much story in this fic as they have in the show.**

**I know that in the show, we had a glimpse of Shaw sitting in a vehicle, but in this story I would start her part with her waking up in Decima's place. I think it might better explain the purpose of the Samaritan and Decima, and why she'd in a vehicle looking fully recovered yet wasn't contacting Team Machine.**

**The relationship development of Shaw and Root in this story will be a slow, slow burn. Don't say that I haven't warned you.**

**Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest, and I don't profit from it. If I did though, Carter would still be alive.**

 

* * *

 

Chapter 1

In a small classroom, a dozen of students quietly watched their professor taking out a stack of print outs from his brief case. Then, the textbook was laid right beside them on the desk. After that, he placed three markers, blue, red and black, one by one next to the textbook.

He straightened himself afterwards, briefly scanning the entire place. After having realized that he had been checking the corners of the walls and the ceiling, he cleared his throat and focused on the students.

"Good afternoon, everyone," he greeted, his voice a little tight. "My name is Harold Vireo. I will be teaching CS509 this semester, which is Artificial Intelligence I."

He paused for a moment and took in all the curiosity and enthusiasm from the students. "Any questions before we start anything?"

After a short while of susurrus of chats among the students, a girl in the front row raised her hand. "Actually, I have a question, professor."

"Yes, Ms.-"

"-Blake," the girl told him. "Jordan Blake."

"Of course, Ms. Blake. What question is it that you have?"

"Just wondering...are we gonna meet a real AI some time this semester, cuz...there's gonna be one, right?"

"Very good question, Ms. Blake," Harold commented. "And the answer is yes, we are going to meet not only one, but several AIs later in this class."

He paused, and the whole class burst into excited murmurs.

"Like...David in the movie?" A tall guy sitting in the back beamed.

"I'm afraid not. The AIs we are going to see won't be anything nearly like him, or any of the AIs you've seen in the shows," Harold answered.

Despite the disappointment written all over the students' face, he continued to explain, "the real AIs out there aren't humanoids. They are computer systems. Some small, others huge. Higher end ones are clusters of high performance computers well maintained by experts. No matter what they do, or how much information they are able to process, they look nothing like humans."

"Why not?" The tall guy pursued. "Is it not possible to make one looking like a human or something?"

"It is entirely possible actually, though not now. We don't have that technology yet."

"We don't?" A student cramming in a chair on the side asked.

"No, we don't, not yet," the professor said, "an AI is a system that makes decisions according to a set of programmed rules and a large amount of known information. To find the optimal decision among all possibles, it has to evaluate every decision and compare them. A large scale of cutting-edge hardware is required for this process. A large server room, an entire floor, or even the whole building is needed. We have no way to fit those into a human size figure. Unless, you want to make the figure as large as a Titan. That might work, I suppose."

Instead of reacting to his semi bad joke, most of the students were stunned by his negative comments. Jordan eventually shrugged and asked, "what kind of AIs are we talking about then?"

"Well, later in this semester we are going to-" Harold was interrupted by his buzzing phone lying on the desk. He merely glanced at it with the corner of his eye and caught a glimpse of the number. He dismissed the call and turned off his phone, his lips clenched and his fingers shaking slightly.

"I thought phones weren't allowed in the classes, school policy," the tall guy teased while crossing his arms in front of his chest, and other students started to chuckle.

"I'm sorry it was just..." Harold trailed off as he looked down at his cell phone, a popular model in the 90s. Now being turned off, it looked like a crappy display model.

Having noticed that he was staring at the small screen of his phone in dead silence in front of all the students for too long, he swallowed hard and straightened himself.

"Let's look at the syllabus, shall we?" He suggested as he handed out the printouts. The students took them, concerned, amused, and curious.

"I'd like to say a few things about my contact information first. Here I list my numbers, email address and my office hours. If you want to see me some time other than my office hours, please make an appointment with me first. I would really appreciate that."

He stopped for a second or two, looking at the sheet of paper in his hand. "I would also prefer email to phone calls."

Some students wrote down what he had just said, while others shrugging and staring at him.

"In this semester I would like you to split into 3-member groups. The programming assignments and other homeworks should be turn in as a group work and your work should be carefully documented. Now let's talk about the programming assignments first. Together they will account for 50% of your final-"

His phone buzzed again. Somehow it managed to turn itself on and received a call.

Harold looked down, his chest heaving. He tried to ignore it and continue explaining the program assignments, however he was too distracted to do so.

Eventually, he shoved his phone into his pocket and started to pack his things.

"Professor Vireo?" Jordan murmured, confused.

Harold avoided eye contact with her, but he stopped packing for a moment. Picking up the syllabus, he said, "I want you to read the chapter of Turing Test, and then play the imitation game in groups. One of the member in the group shall play as an AI, and think as one too. Record the game, analyse it, and tell me the difference between a human mind and an AI. Turn in your answer next time."

He took a last glance at the students, and more than half of them raised their hands.

"In what format?" "Should we write an essay?" "Do we need to record the process or just document it on paper?"

Harold paused. "Do whatever way you like. I have to go."

* * *

 

The first thing Shaw noticed was a constant, clear beeping sound. It must be a timed bomb. She told herself while swallowing hard to ease the stingy discomfort in her parched throat.

She wanted to open her eyes, but those lids seemed to be heavier than lead. She wanted to get up, but every inch of her body was either not responding or sore.

The beeping sound continued, and she held on to that, along with all other sounds she could hear. The ceiling fan turning. The A/C running. Someone talking afar. Her own heartbeat in her ears. Herself breathing.

It took her some effort to finally open her eyes. The shadow of the fan flickering on the ceiling. greeting her. A small door on the far side of the room was closed. A countertop with a sink and some cabinets was on the opposite side of the door. On top of the counter, there was several folded towels stacking, a plastic cup with a lid and a straw. There was also a tray with a few covered bowls; among them there was a small carton. She assumed that it was milk since there was a blue cow printed on the white background.

Food. That very thought made her mouth watering like crazy. Hunger clawed out from inside her, through her throat and making her groan. She rolled on her side, and propped herself on one of her elbows first. Using it as a leverage, she moved her entire body into a sitting position.

It was then she noticed the iv needles taped to her wrists and the back of her left hand. She checked the bag of the drugs and realized that none of them were for treating any critical conditions. She yanked ivs off her, leaving them on the floor.

The iv monitor alarm started to scream, and she rolled her eyes while silenced it with a fist banging on the button. She grabbed the iv stand, squeezing it hard to support herself before tottering towards the food tray.

She reached for the milk carton, but a dull pain from under her chest stopped her. She cursed, pressing her hand on it. Pain normally wouldn't bother her much, but she was now too weak to ignore it completely. Turning her torso, she pressed the side of her hip against the edge of the counter. It made her feel a little better.

Grabbing the carton, she clumsily pulled it open and gulped it, downing it so fast that she almost choked on the drink.

She breathed heavily, wiping her mouth with the shoulder hem of what she was wearing right now, which was a loose, light green patient gown.

She grabbed the packaged bun, and returned to the bed. She sat down and quietly chewed it, while her memories came to her.

She remembered being gun down by that annoying blonde Decima agent, Martine. She remembered the force of the gunshot pushing her back. She remembered the gunshots raining down. What had happened next?

She tried, but only recalled a short conversation between her and Greer while she had still been in and out for whatever drugs they had given her. She had no recollections of the content of the conversation, though.

A gentle knock on the door spooked her. She quickly pulled the iv monitor off and held it tight as a weapon, before she walked behind the door in stealth.

"No need to prepare to attack me, Sameen," Greer's voice came to her from outside the door. "I'm just here to talk."

"What do you want from me?" Shaw huffed.

"I don't want anything from you, my dear," Greer told her. "I'm here to talk about what you want."

"You really want to know what I want? I want to snap your neck and bomb the shit out of the Samaritan. Then, after that, I want to go home with the blood of Martine on my hands, proudly."

"I'm afraid that it won't happen," Greer said. "We lost her to Samantha Groves."

The deepest corner of Shaw's heart clenched at the name. "Wow, just as I thought you'd never be able to deliver good news. What do you want, Greer?"

"Like I said, I'm just here to talk."

Shaw sighed, and opened the door for him. She returned to the bed, sitting vigilantly.

"Please, Sameen," Greer said, a series of low chuckles humming in his throat. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

"Who says I'm afraid?" Shaw countered, eyeing the man who stood in the corner. "Are you here to remind me that I'm now a prisoner of the Samaritan and that if I don't cooperate I'll be in serious trouble?"

"I'm here to do none of those," Greer replied with a calm voice. "I'm here to simply make you an offer."

"And what would that be?" Shaw asked as she ate the rest of the food from the tray.

"Join us," Greer said.

Shaw scoffed. "Oh you must be outta ya mind, old man. Join you? Either you are crazy, or I am."

Greer didn't responded to her words. He simply sat there and looked at her. It creeped Shaw out, that the look in Greer's eyes was genuinely concern, as if she was someone important to him. And that reminded her the way he had addressed her. He would address the others by their last name, but he had called her by her first, Sameen, instead of Shaw, Ms. Shaw or agent Shaw.

"I wasn't joking, Sameen. And as an intelligent operative, you should have already known that it is not just the best choice, but the only choice that you have," Greer continued.

"Ummm...I'm pretty sure I have a second one, which is to bomb this place and then escape," Shaw taunted.

"Except to where?" Greer asked. "Where would you go, or, more importantly, where can you go?"

"Really? You are playing you are alone anyway card on me? That's a new low, even for you."

"I am not playing any tricks, or interrogation skills on you. I am simply stating the fact," Greer argued. "I'm sure you may have a few acquaintances. You may even want to call them friends. However, that ship has sunk already. There is no Team Machine anymore. How can you go back to a ship that is lying on the very bottom of the ocean?"

Shaw's blood ran cold. She swallowed hard, trying to stay as calm as she could, so Greer wouldn't use that against her later. However, she knew that he must have noticed the flinch of her body, the quiver of the corner of her lips, or her hands fisting her gown.

Her first instinct was to shove the man to the wall and put something sharp to his throat until he spat out every piece of truth. Though, she remained at where she was, and managed to sneer. "You really think you can fool me with that?"

"Ah, you must forgive me, dear," Greer replied. "I almost forgot that you've been unconscious for days. You may relax. My agents haven't found their bodies yet. Presumably, they are still alive, somewhere. However, without the Machine, they are nothing relevant to the Samaritan's plan."

"Why don't we talk about this plan then?"

"I assure you, when you agree to join us, you will know every details of it," Greer told her.

Shaw rolled her eyes. She tossed the last bit of cracker crumbs into her mouth, before she said, "do I have a news channel to watch so I know what has happened while I was out?"

Her hands were shaking a little, and she shoved them between her knees. She raised to stare at the man, hiding her concerns behind her nonchalant eyes.

"Here's what happened," Greer said, brushing the back of his hand against the corner of his coat. "The Machine was cornered by the Samaritan. Finch tried to encrypt the code of the Machine and save it into a briefcase. We successfully intercepted the briefcase. Team Machine escaped, possibly acquired some new identities and now in hide."

He paused for a second or two, observing Shaw carefully. A smile formed on the corner of his mouth, when he saw the brunette letting out a breath of relief.

"Enough for the dead AI. The government department you used to work for, which was handling the relevant numbers, has been shut down and replaced by a new one solely working under the Samaritan. Control managed to escape. We are still looking for her. Once we catch her and get all the secrets out from her, she would no longer be relevant."

Shaw rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Greer stepped forward a little, and Shaw straightened her back in a guarding stance. However, the man just gave her a smile, and said, "while you take your rest, please, think carefully and consider my offer, will you?"

With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving a pondering Shaw alone.

* * *

 

Harold arrived at a small office in the corner of the staff section. He rushed in and shut the door immediately, almost knocking off the name tag of "Harold Vireo".

He stood there breathlessly, holding the briefcase tightly to his chest. The phone started to buzz again.

Barely having caught his breath, he put the phone on the desk and stared at the screen that was lit and then went back to dark. He took a deep breath, moving his finger back and forth between the "answer" and "hang up" button.

Before he had made a decision, the door opened. A woman walked in, with a dog. The moment the dog saw Harold, he let out a happy whine and jumped to him.

"Next time I call you, try answer it, okay?" The woman teased.

"The reason we went different ways and agreed to never meet again, was to maintain our cover and stay alive, Ms. Groves," Harold said, not looking at her. "You shouldn't have come here. And you certainly shouldn't have gone to get Bear from the dog sitter lady."

"Oh, please," Root huffed, rolling her eyes. "The dog sitter barely lets him out of her house, and you know how much Bear likes to go to the park."

"If you come here for the same purpose that you came to me a week ago in North Dakota, I'm afraid that I can't help you. You should leave," Harold told her, grabbing things on the desk before putting them into his briefcase.

"Oh, Harry, don't be so cruel," Root sat down on his chair and looked at him, her head tilting to one side slightly.

"I can't help you, Ms. Groves, even if I want to," Harold said to her after a sigh. "We have lost the battle. It's done. The Machine is no longer operable. Even it I want to help you, I can't."

"Harold, you know that she's still out there," Root said, her voice is a little shaking on the word "she". "We can't just…."

"Actually, I don't know that. All we know is that we haven't found her body, but we haven't seen her in person either. Yes, you've seen a brunette being led out from the building where the Samaritan is located. Yes, you've received a phone call from someone and this person's voice sounded dangerously close to Ms. Shaw's. But, was that truly her, or Greer manipulating you and letting you believe that it was her?"

"She must still be alive. She's too valuable to die," Root said. She paused for a brief moment, looking away from the man in front of her. She swallowed back the weak whimper that was about to creep out, and added, "maybe she doesn't mean much to you, Harry, but she does to me."

"I have always considered her a dear friend," Harold argued, "but following an illusion painted carefully by the Samaritan will not get us anywhere, I'm afraid. They could have removed her body from where she was shot, leading us to believe that she's still alive so we'd willingly walk into the trap."

"Or, she really is alive and she needs us," Root said. "We have to rebuild the Machine. We have to find her."

Harold clenched his lips. He clenched them so hard that they became pale. "Don't you remember that the Machine specifically told you to stop looking for her?"

"It was a choice out of logic and reason, not a choice out of her heart," Root argued, forgetting that one of her nails was digging into her palm. "She wants Sameen back just as much as I do."

"Well, good luck with that, Ms. Groves, since she is no longer here."

"She's no longer here because you refused to rebuild her," Root raised her voice, with a hint of anger. "You can't keep her in that tiny briefcase forever, Harold."

"Yes, I can," Harold replied, his voice coated in despair.

"Why wouldn't you rebuild her, Harry?" Root questioned, and the man went quiet without even daring to look at her.

Harold let out a deep sigh, which sounded like a dying animal's last breath. "The Machine has sacrificed itself to save us. I am not letting it die for any of us again."

His voice was too bitter, and it seized Root's heart. A long, heavy silence consumed both of them; each drowned in their train of thoughts.

"What's the difference, Harold? What's the difference between being dead and rotting in the briefcase?" Root whispered, her voice so light that Harold could barely hear her.

The man's lips moved, but not a single sound came out from them. After a long pause, he murmured, "you do realize that if we do this, we probably will end up all dead, right?"

"If we don't, we do nothing, and then we rot," Root replied. She waited for Harold's answer, a nod, a yes or even a smile indicating that he was in, but she got none.

"Goodbye, Harry," she sighed and headed to the door. The dog watched her intently, until she was about to walk out the door. He growled, torn between following her and staying with Harold.

Root turned to Bear, only to find that Harold raised to look into her eyes.

"So what do you propose, Root?" The man asked with a surprisingly firm voice.

* * *

 

Lying in bed, Shaw stared at the turning ceiling fan blankly as she pondered every word Greer had said to her.

The Machine was down? It was a shocking news to her, since she had never considered that the Machine would one day be down. She thought that Finch, or Root, would have figured out something to save it.

Root. The name made her heart race painfully. At least, she would consider that feelings a pain, after years of training herself to pay attention to that intense clench. It wouldn't upset her or made her any less capable, though, for it wouldn't seize her as to most people. To her, it was just muscle tightening, twitching, and adrenaline spike. It wasn't real.

She wondered why Greer would have told her that they could still be alive. Maybe a way to tell her that she still had something to lose. Or maybe just to destroy her confidence by painting the whole situation so casually, as if their death wouldn't concern him, or the Samaritan, at all.

However, they were probably still alive, and that made her feel a bit relieved. She hoped that they weren't trying to locate her by putting themselves in danger.

She didn't allow herself to put more thoughts on how the Team Machine would defeat the Samaritan without the Machine. Her priority right now, was to figure out the "plan" Greer had talked about, and then to get out of here alive.

She had studied everything inside, and checked outside the room. No doubt she was in a hospital, however she didn't think that it would open to the public since two group of Decima agents were guarding the exits.

Had she had a weapon, or a careful plan, she could have taken them out. The real question was, why would Greer have left her like this? No cuffs, no restraints, not even a single guard outside her door. He should have known what she was capable of, yet he let her unguarded. A generous gesture? Or it was part of his bigger plan?

Before she had reached a conclusion, she heard someone walking towards her door. A moment later, she heard a light knock.

"If you are delivering food, I'd like to have a medium rare t-bone!" She yelled.

The people outside her door had a short chat, their voices so low that she couldn't hear what they were saying. Then, she heard a female voice saying "I'll talk to her alone, John".

That voice made her hold her breath, because there was such a familiarity in it. She knew she had heard it before, a lot. That finding chilled her spine. Cold sweat coated her back in seconds. No, no, it can't be. She told herself, but the lingering sound haunted her.

She shook her head, and the door opened. A woman stepped in. She's tall, a brunette, wearing a suit that perfectly tailored for her, with a colorful scarf around her neck. She smiled at Shaw, and said, "Sameen..."

Shaw's eyes shot open, and so did her mouth. For a short moment, she seriously asked herself if this was nothing but a dream. She stared at the women in front of her, who couldn't and shouldn't be here. She looked at her face, trying to find any evidence that would suggest that this woman wasn't whom she thought she was.

Shaw examined her smile, the way her lips curling up, the sparkles in her beautiful dark eyes, the way her curls falling on her shoulder, the light, almost invisible scar right under her chin. She looked at every detail, every micro expression, everything, until she gave up.

With her heart pounded hard against her chest, and her hands squeezing the sheets, she eventually became able to speak again.

"Mama-mom…?" She murmured, correcting herself after blurting out the word she had used to call the other woman when she was very young.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In a room of a supercomputing center, a tall, skinny man was examining the computer cluster inside. He checked the units one by one, and for each unit he had checked, he would type a comment or two into his laptop describing the condition of it.

During the entire time, he was humming some country music, his head bobbing with the rhythm.

He was about to check the last cabinet, but heard someone knocking on the door.

He paused, peeking out from the side. However, his sight was completely blocked by the rows of cabinets, and he couldn't see the doorway. He waited, and the knocking came again.

"Who's there?" He asked, stepping away from the units and towards the door.

"All Pest Solutions pest control," a man's voice answered him. "We are here to exterminate the termites."

"Termites?" The supercomputing center employee repeated, frowning. He placed his laptop on the floor and rushed to the door.

Two pest control workers were standing there, both in gray protective suits and each carrying a drug tank. One of them had a mask on, and the other one, a man with glasses, held his mask in one hand and a few sheets of paper in the other.

"You must be knocking on the wrong door, sir," the employee said. "We don't have termites here."

"Really? You haven't heard about the termite incident yet?" The other pest control person spoke. It was female voice, soft, with a hint of teasing, and muffled by the mask.

The man froze. He looked at the two pest control people, before he slurred, "I really haven't."

"Oh you really should, sir," the man drawled with a calm voice. "We've got a report saying that an employee here was admitted to the hospital for high dose of naphthalene poisoning."

"Naph-what?"

"Naphthalene. A deadly, carcinogenic substance released by termites residing here. The Formosan subterranean termites, to be precise," the woman answered him. "Naphthalene has a unique, strong odor.."

The man immediately sniffed the air while turning his head around. "I-I don't think I smell anything."

"Oh, of course, only 40% people can smell it. It's genetic. If you can't, you can't," the woman explained to him. "You know George next door, right?"

"Yeah, yeah of course I do. We often go to lunch together."

"He's the one in critical condition, because sadly, he's one of the 60% who can't smell and he has inhaled too much," the woman told him.

"W-what? George's in hospital? Oh my God, oh my God, am I poisoned? Will I die?" The man started to panic, touching his face and then his thighs. He waved his hand around his nose, as if he could get rid of the odor he couldn't smell.

"Please, let us do our work, so you don't end up like George," the man said and showed him the paperwork of being authorized to open the dry walls and to clean the termites.

"Oh my God...oh my God...I-I'm going to the hospital now," the man mumbled, running out from the room, leaving the other two inside.

After he had completely disappeared, the male worker sighed with relief and turned to the woman. "I am fairly certain that what you have described is cyanide, Ms. Groves. Only 4 out of 10 people can smell cyanide."

"Oh, don't be so serious, Harold. As long as it does the trick," the woman, Root, took off her mask. She briefly combed her hair with her fingers, before she started to take off the protection suit.

She opened the bag that she carried with her, and took out her laptop. Before she opened it though, she heard someone coming.

She reached for her gun, only pulling it out for the slightest bit while approaching the door. A guy dressed as the janitor showed up, pushing a cart with a big trash can, mop and other cleaning supplies towards the door. He placed a "stop" sign at where people might come by, before he nodded at Root.

Root smiled and shoved her gun back into its holster. "Nice to see you, John." She eyed his face for a second or two, before she added, "nice tan."

"I wasn't lying about having a great time in Honduras," Reese replied as he carried the trash can into the room and closed the door behind him. "It's nice to have some time under the sun, drinking, kicking some evil mobsters' asses."

"I'm afraid that this catch up talk would need another time, Mr. Reese," Finch told him, before he reached into the trash can. "You got the thing, right?"

"Please," Reese said in a low voice, a corner of his mouth tilting up.

Finch gave him a mere nod, and quickly removed the trash from the can, which turned out to be some empty plastic bags and ruffled papers that had been glued together as a cover to conceal the system unit under it. The system unit looked exactly like the units in the room.

"Can either of you tell me what's going on here, or shall I just google?" Reese teased, watching Root working on her computer and Finch standing by.

"Well, I am trying to persuade this supercomputing system, this cluster whose name is Lightning, to grant me the access to one of its units," Root explained while working. "And...done. Now, I'm going to tell the system that this unit needs repair, so it'll be turned off without alerting anyone."

After she hit enter, one of the units near Harold had its light off and its fans stopped running. Root turned to nod at Finch, and the man quickly switched two units.

"I'm gonna turn on our little spy there," Root said as she typed a few lines of commands. "Okay, now we have a secure, private wireless connection between here and our mothership."

"This is where the new Machine is going to be located at?" Reese asked.

"Oh, no, John, this is not," Finch explained, "Root and I had a discussion earlier, and we both agreed that we need to make the new Machine portable, a few units at most, as its core. The processing of information will be distributed to the workers, and this supercomputing center is going to be one of them."

Reese nodded while Root entered the last command.

"Alright, I've gained full access to this whole place now," she said as she showed her laptop to Finch and Reese.

On the command line interface, it displayed "Welcome to the supercomputing center, Root." After that, it was a prompt: "enter administrator mode?"

Root tilted her head to the side slightly and smiled. "See, now it already know that my name. Through here, we can access every single supercomputing center over the world. There is going to be overhead of data transmission and task distribution. Some load balancing problem maybe, but this will definitely work."

* * *

Shaw got off the bed slowly. Swallowing hard, she took a step forward. OId memories drowned her. Memories of her mother. Memories of the few years she had spent with this tall, pretty woman. Her smile. Her strong yet soft hands. Her voice. The pilaf she would cook for family gatherings, with rice, chopped vegetable, nuts and saffron.

She wanted to ask her mother why she would be here, but she had already figured out the answer to her own question. Her mother wasn't here as a prison for sure. Otherwise she wouldn't have confident eyes and immaculate hair, and she wouldn't have called Greer by his first name.

"You are working for them, huh? What, they sent you over to talk some sense into me?" Shaw asked as she gazed into her mother's eyes.

"No, Shaw, I don't work for them," the other woman replied her. After seeing the eye roll given by her daughter, she raised one corner of her lips to form a smile that was ice cold. "They work for me."

Shaw gaped at her. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."

The other woman huffed out a light laugh through her nose. "I am one of the founders of Decima, Sameen. Otherwise why do you think someone would have risked their life and smuggled us out of Iran?"

Shaw opened her mouth, but couldn't get a single word out. Memories of them leaving Iran came to her vividly. She remembered hiding in a specially altered car. She remembered her and her mother cramming in the small space under the backseats. She remembered the smell of that tiny space, that smell of gasoline, cigarettes, leather and sweat.

She remembered that someone, possibly the border police, had ordered the car to stop. She had been dragged out from the darkness and into the scorching sun. She had been pushed around, shoved to the ground, and then picked up. People had been yelling, shouting and cursing around her, with gun firing nonstop.

The next thing she remembered, was her and her mother being shoved into the back of a big truck. Right before its door closed, she had had a glimpse of the outside. Two border policemen were down, their clothes soaked in blood. Another police had been firing back at someone outside the truck while talking on the radio.

A bullet had hit the door and come through, and she remembered her curling up and shaking. The hole let the light shed in, and that was the only ray of light she had had in the dark trunk during the entire trip before they had arrived at a small city in Turkey and met her father there.

She had never really given it much thought before, of why someone would smuggle them out of Iran like that. More importantly, why would her parents have agreed to it? They both had had nice jobs. Her mother had been a director of a travel agency, and her father had been a gardener.

When thinking about the travel agency, she sighed, almost laughing at herself for not having figured this out sooner. It would be such a perfect cover job for an intelligent agent, and that could explain everything, including the way her mother would talk to her. "You were a spy," she finally concluded.

"I was," the other woman nodded slightly. "I used to work for the Ministry of Intelligence. I was a senior interrogator and also a bioelectrical chip designer. The job in the travel agency was my cover for catching an American spy."

"Okay, but can we skip the boring stuff and go to the part where you created Decima?"

"I am getting there," the other woman said, a slight impatience slipped through her tone. "We caught the spy, and I interrogated him. During the process, I learned the secret about a US government program involving a machine that would spy on every single citizen."

"And you were intrigued by that?" Shaw's voice nothing but sarcastic.

"Who wouldn't? It would lead to a brilliant future, where that machine will guide everyone."

"Yeah, by guide you mean  _spy on and control_? I don't think it should be described as brilliant. I think the word you are looking for is  _shitty_ , or _hell-like_."

However, the other woman seemed not to have been offended by that at all. She ignored Shaw's comments, and continued to explain. "That man, that spy, tried to recruit me for that program, but I thought, why would anyone work for someone when they could get their hands on the machine directly? Why can't I work for myself? I killed him, and started a plan."

Shaw closed her eyes and sighed when she heard the word "killed" but saw no emotion shown on her mother's face, not even a flinch. "So that was why we left Iran?"

"Yes. I found his handler, and convinced her that he had flipped me but was killed by my colleagues. She believed me, and arranged the trip for us to get out of Iran. Then, I killed her, and recruited a small group of people and started Decima."

"Okay, you are the leader of Decima. You've found and captured the Samaritan. Great, fantastic for you, but no, I'm not gonna join you," Shaw said, throwing her hand into the air.

"Except that it's not up to you, Sameen," the other woman told her. Her voice was calm and cold, with absolutely no emotions shown. It almost made Shaw shiver.

_How can she be so sure?_ She asked herself as she stared at the confident grin on her mother's face.

"We've given you a little gift," her mother told her, pointing at the back of her head.

It was then Shaw noticed that subtle pulsing sensation on the back of her head, as if one of the blood vessels there got a bit too excited. She reached for it, and touched a small piece of shaved scalp. In the middle, there was a short incision closed by several stitches. The cut was deep, too deep for fixing anything between her skin and the skull. Angry, astounded, and maybe a little scared, her heart raced. It pounded dangerously fast, slamming against her chest.

"What did you do to me?" She hissed at her mother. "What the fuck did you do to me?!"

"Just a small surgery," the other woman told her. Then she paused, as if she was waiting for Shaw to believe her. "We put a nano chip there, and it'll give the Samaritan access to your vision and your hearing."

A loud curse came out from Shaw's mouth, and she grabbed her mother's collar before she shoved her to the wall. She slammed her left forearm against the other woman' neck and reached for her gun with the other. She yanked the weapon out and pushed it against her stomach.

Shaw was about to make a threat, but a cold, electrical rush flooded her brain, paralyzing her. She felt her muscles relax uncontrollably; the gun slipped out from her hand and dropped on the floor.

She fell back, tripping over the corner of the bed before collapsing on the floor.

* * *

The loud noise attracted a few Decima agents, but Greer waved them off. Their conversation sounded nothing but a buzzing blur to Shaw.

"Don't challenge...Samaritan. He...watching..." her mother's words came to her, incoherent, broken.

Shaw found it impossible to grasp the meaning because of her spinning head. Seconds later, she passed out.

After having set up everything in the supercomputing center, Finch, Root and Reese went back to their old hideout - the underground train.

"I see you got everything set up already," Reese said as he looked around at several computer system units stacking up in a cabinet in the corner of the old train.

Next to it, there was a table holding three monitors. One of the monitors was on, waiting for commands.

"How's the Machine doing?" He asked while watching finch carrying his briefcase to the cabinet.

Finch paused briefly, raising to look at him while unlatching the briefcase. "We are about to find out," he said, plugging wires into the outlet ports on the side of the RAMs he had used to store the core of the Machine before it had been forced to power off. Then he connected them to the system units.

"Call me if you need me then. I'm gonna go get some lunch," Reese said.

With that he beckoned at bear, who excitedly dashed towards him. Together they walked to the exit of the place and disappeared.

Finch checked the wires and ports again, before he nodded at Root. Root gave him a smile, and entered a copy command.

The word "Copying" immediately showed up on the screen, with a percentage indicating how much information has been copied already. It soon reached 100 percent, and stopped.

"I'll run the decompression program now," Root said simply without looking at Finch. She typed in the commands, and then adjusted the parameters. She moved her index finger tip along the edge of the "enter" key for a few seconds, before she finally hit it.

The system units started to hum, their fans going loud. A percentage number appeared on screen again, changing slowly, so very slowly that it seemed to have frozen there forever.

Root stared at the screen, sucking on her bottom lip, one of her heel kicking the leg of the chair gently. Harold, on the other hand, started to remove any unused items away from the table.

When the number had reached 59 percent, Reese came back with bear. He had two bags of fast food in one hand, and in the other there was a carrier box with two drinks.

He threw the bags at the other two people. Finch missed it, but before his bag hit the floor, Root caught it in her hand. She handed it back to the man with a smirk on her face, and Finch thanked her before he started to grunt about the leaking sauce making his burger bread soggy.

Root ate her food, and sucked on the straw till there were only ice cubes left in her cup. She kept sucking and chewing on the straw nonetheless, making dry, hollow noises.

The number had finally reached 100. Then there was the word "installing" which lasted for more than an hour. After that, it was "configuration" for hours.

Eventually, the screen cleared itself automatically. All previous commands and outputs were gone. The only thing that was on the screen, was a slash indicating that the system was on its root directory, and a short underline stroke acting as the cursor.

Root tilted her head at the screen as she looked at Harold. The man nodded at her, and she gave him her chair.

Finch sat down. Staring at the camera clipped to the top edge of the monitor, he moved the mic closer to him. Then he pulled it even closer, till his lips were less than a quarter inch away from it.

He cleared his throat, sucked in the air that had suddenly became heavy. It was then he noticed himself shaking a little.

He swallowed. "Can you see me?" He finally spoke, his voice dry and tight.

The moment his voice died in the air, the three of them held their breath. Even bear stopped playing and watched them intently.

The cursor disappeared, and then reappeared. Such process lasted for a while, until they were on the verge of giving up all hopes.

Then, a word appeared on the screen. White letters on the dark background.

**Yes.**

Finch took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. Bittersweetness exploded inside him, making his stomach clench and his legs give out. He turned to Root and tried to give her a smile, but with his eyes stung by tears, he couldn't smile at all.

Root huffed out a light laugh, which sounded closer to a whimper of joy. She clenched her jaw immediately and squeezed the corner of the back of the chair hard, tears welling up in her eyes.

Finch raised the mic to his lips, and asked, "Who am I?"

**Admin.** The system answered him, this time with no delay.

"And who is she?" He pointed at Root, his eyes still on the camera.

The cursor flashed. Then the camera buzzed and turned to focus on Root. Immediately after that, three words appeared on the screen.

**The Analog Interface.**

The words disappeared, and Root gasped. She looked into the camera. "It's nice to talk to you again. What do you need?"

Finch turned to her, and she listened to the Machine. Seconds later, she said, "she says that she had come up with a plan before been taken off the grid. However, the electric surge right after the download caused some loss of the information, and she is only able to recover part of the plan."

"A part of it is always better than none," Finch commented, and Root nodded.

Seconds later, a social security number popped up on the screen.

"I thought the Machine used to contact you through the phone and give you letter combinations that you have to decode into a social," Reese murmured.

"I suppose the Machine knows that I no longer have access to my old library, and we have a tight schedule now," Finch told him, before he entered the number into a search.

A driver license popped out on the screen, together with a few other documents associated with the same number.

"His name is Jack Willows, a local jewelry store owner," Finch murmured.

"Looks like we are going jewelry shopping, John," Root teased as she threw on her jacket.

* * *

The ringing in Shaw's head had finally gone. She struggled to prop herself on her elbows. "What the fuck was that?!" She asked, her voice weak and gagging.

"You can consider it as a warning from the Samaritan for trying to kill me," her mother said, standing beside her and looking down at her. "Don't let it down too often, Sameen. The shock the chip gives you whenever you disobey, will eventually cause permanent brain damage."

Shaw dropped back to the floor, staring at the ceiling. Despair suddenly seized her heart. "What do you want from me?" She mumbled, breathing heavily.

"I don't want anything from you, but I am gonna tell you that you are the most precious of all," the other woman told her with a nonchalant tone. "You will fit perfectly in the new world."

"A new world?" Shaw asked.

"Yes, a new world, guarded by the Samaritan and us. A world where there is no crimes, wars, or violence or any kind and-"

"-because whoever disobey would get brain shocked?" Shaw interrupted her.

"Well, soon everyone will learned to obey," her mother said with a smile on her face.

"Yeah, to obey a fucking AI? To follow the orders of a damn computer? Sounds crazy to me."

"Don't you think a lifeless, unemotional entity is the best choice for leading the new world?"

"Whatever. I stopped listening to you before you described the  _new world_. I will not surrender."

"No one is asking you to surrender, Sameen. I'm simply asking you to embrace your new life, to embrace a better future. A future with absolute orders and unbreakable laws."

"No, I will not surrender," Shaw repeated, squeezing each word through her clenched teeth.

"Why not? Are you still wanting to go back to your friends or something?" Her mother scoffed. "Whatever you feel for them, for that Samantha girl, isn't real. You know that, Sameen. You  _can't_ feel. It's not in you."

Shaw furrowed her eyebrows at her mother. "How do you know about my condition?"

The other woman huffed out a light laugh while shaking her head slightly. "We prepared you shortly after we entered. We performed a surgical procedure on your. A small brain surgery, where we deactivated the part of your brain that controls  _feelings_ and _pain_. Sadly, your father took you away from me right after that, because he didn't like the idea of preparing you as as soldier who fits perfectly in the new world. It's nice to have you back again."

Shaw took a deep breath, growls of rage humming in her throat. She resisted the urge of ripping her own mother's heart out with her bare hands right now, and closed her eyes. "You prepared me, huh?"

"Yes, we did. It was an amazing decision, considering the prototype chips doesn't work that great with those who has emotional ups and downs," her mother said. "Most of the test subjects died of endless seizures, others of brain damage. You are the only one who can handle it so far."

Shaw didn't say anything. She was too busy forcing air into her lungs just so they wouldn't give out. The ringing in her ears told her to kill, but she didn't go for it. She just raised to look at her mother, a crushed, broken look in her eyes.

"You have nowhere to go, Sameen. This is the only place you can belong. This is where you can make yourself useful," She paused for a bit, watching a hopeless look fleet across Shaw's face. "Once you are ready, the Samaritan has tasks for you."

With that, her mother left the room with Greer and closed the door behind her. Shaw let out that breath she had been holding forever. She drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in, before she fisted her hands. She fisted them too hard, her nails digging into her palms, causing them to bleed.

She can't feel it, though. She just can't.

* * *

**A/N: I know it would probably take a very long time to break someone like Shaw, and to flip her, but I don't want to drag it for 10 chaps long either cuz I really want to get the story started, so...**

**I know in the show, Shaw apparently woke up and appeared in the car before the Machine was offline, in my story though, she hasn't appeared in that car yet (she will in next chap), because I am trying to avoid flashbacks and wanting to give her more story :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sinking into the passenger seat, Shaw let out a deep breath as she looked through the window.

Outside the car, the moonless, starless night shrouded everything. Trees, fields, and distant mountains were nothing but vague contours. City lights afar didn't even look real to her.

A truck whizzed by, its bright headlights being reflected on the rear view mirror, almost blinding her. It quickly passed by the car she was in and changed lane in front of them, before it disappeared in the darkness.

The only light left now was from the dashboard, dim, cold. Shaw glanced at her reflection in the side mirror, a face shadowed by the night. The distant light coming from the cars far behind her made her feel like she was running away from it.

She felt like she was running deep into the darkness. She was running into a place without an outlet. It was just her, and endless, edgeless night.

She closed her eyes and threw her head back, letting her frustration sink into her stomach and rot. A bitter feeling squeezed her heart, making it clench so desperately inside her chest. Despair broke free, clawing her veins, digging into her stomach, and scraping everything off from her.

It felt so familiar. It had accompanied her for years. It had always been lurking in the darkest corner of her chest, waiting for her to be alone. Now, it was back again, laughing.

A slight buzz in her ear made her roll her eyes. She pressed the tip of her middle finger on her tragus, and straightened her body.

"Sameen," her mother's voice came. "You haven't tried to kill the driver and take the car, have you?"

Shaw took a glimpse of the driver, and rolled her eyes again when the man looked back at her nervously.

"He's no fun to kill," she replied. "And I like my brain. I don't want it to get shocked again."

"Good," the other woman told her. "I don't want to send people after you and watch you get shot either."

Shaw sneered. She lifted her legs and rested her heels on top of the glove compartment, before she said, "if you can't trust me, don't send me out on a job."

"I do trust you," her mother argued. "I just think that you are beyond impulsive sometimes."

Shaw huffed out a scoff. "Don't worry," she drawled. "I'm not going anywhere."

She paused briefly, inhaling the cold, misty night. "This is where I belong," she added, her voice as sullen as it could possibly get.

"It's good to finally acknowledge that. Although, I'd hope that one day you can truly embrace that," her mother said. "This is the beginning of a new world. The beginning of the most beautiful thing."

"Whatever," Shaw murmured.

"As long as you behave, you won't see their disemboweled bodies hanging somewhere in Time Square. I promise."

"Do that," Shaw hissed, squeezing her words through her clenched teeth, "I will end you. I will put a bullet in your head myself, and I don't give a fuck if that damn AI kills me afterwards."

Pulling her wireless earbud out and hurled it at the windshield, she slammed her foot at the glove compartment hard, almost cracking the dashboard.

"Umm..." the driver muttered nervously and turned to her, one of his hands slowly moving away from the steering wheel and to his side.

Shaw glared at him. For a split second she just wanted to grab his gun, shove it into his mouth, and execute him. Then she'd kill as many as she could before the Samaritan would kill her.

But what good would that do? She would die, and her death would mean nothing to anyone but….

She didn't allow herself to say that name. Fisting her hand, she rested her chin on the back of it, and smirked at the driver. "Eyes on the road, and drive with both hands, okay? You don't want get pulled over by a cop, do you?"

The man awkwardly coughed, before he turned away from her and focused on driving again.

The silence resumed. Shaw bit her nail and rested the side of her head on the window. The darkness drained her, causing her heart to freeze.

* * *

Root glanced at the street camera on her left and smiled at it before she got dragged away by Reese.

"Shouldn't we lay low or something?" Reese let go of her and turned away from the camera.

"Relax, as long as the Samaritan doesn't discover the 7 drives I placed, we are safe no matter what identity we use," Root replied.

"I'm sure they know that we are still alive, and I don't know if they have bought the story of us fleeing out from this country. If they haven't, they'd be looking for us. It's only a matter of time before they figure out how we could stay invisible."

"Ms. Groves, perhaps you should listen to him," Finch's voice came into her ear. "The Samaritan could have already figured that out, and is spying on us."

Root shrugged reluctantly. "Fine," she murmured, walking away from the corner, "tell us about this jeweler, Harold. Why is he so special?"

"I am sending everything that I've found to your phone," Finch said. "However, I haven't figured out yet why the Machine thinks that he's in danger."

"Robbery? Theft? He has something that he isn't supposed to have? Know someone that he shouldn't?"

"Well, he's local. He has been running his jewelry shop for 23 years now. Single, relatives are either out of the country or passed away. Doesn't strike me as someone who would get himself in trouble but-huh, interesting."

"What is interesting?" Both Root and Reese asked.

"The Machine is going through every documents from his store, and a familiar name popped out," Finch replied. "It's Diane Claypool."

"Diane Claypool? As in Arthur Claypool's wife Diane?" Root asked, frowning. She didn't realize that she had stopped walking until she saw Reese beckon at her impatiently.

"It appears to be the same name, yes. It was found in the description of a custom jewelry order." He paused to a bit, as if he tried to make sure both had heard him. Then, he continued, "I also find it strange that the person who made the order has the name: Alan Turing written on the order form."

"Either the great man himself has walked out from the grave, or we have one of his admirer," Root concluded. "Could be Arthur, you know. Maybe he wanted to order her something but didn't want to use his real name."

"True, except that this order was placed approximately 8 months  _after_ her funeral. Why would someone do that?"

"Could be a memorial?" Reese suggested. "A lot of people do that for their late spouse."

"But, no one has picked it up from the store." Finch said. "I checked the order status of it. It's a locket. The artist finished crafting it a year ago, but it's still in their safe."

"So, someone ordered a locket for Diane Claypool. Then they never came by and get it? Did the person leave any contact information?"

"Yes, a phone number, 211-623-1912."

Root huffed out a chuckle and licked her lips. "You know it's not a legitimate number, Harry. 211 is a reserved code. It's not been used for any phone numbers."

"Mhm, also Alan Turing was born on June 23, 1912," Finch hummed. "Fake name, fake number...what secret could this person possibly be keeping? Never mind, whatever it is, it's probably why the Machine gave us his number."  
Root turned at the corner a little absentmindedly as she followed Reese. She pondered that question for a second or two. Before she had come up with anything, she quickly ducked behind a car parked on the side of the road. She pulled Reese down with her, and tilted her head at the other side of the street.

She peeked out carefully, and saw several cars parked outside a jewelry store. A sign above the door said "Willow's Jewelries".

Reese pulled out his gun, and Root pulled out hers. "The Machine warned me about that," she told him, her eyes looking at the store.

They were about to go in, but a group of people rushed out from the store. Several of them were carrying a big bag and the others were looking around vigilantly. The "closed" sign dangled behind the glass door, while two fingers slipped out from the unzipped end of the bag.

"Is everything okay, Ms. Groves?" Finch asked after having found that the two had been quiet for too long. "Mr. Reese? What's going on?"

"Something that we came here to prevent, I guess," Reese answered him as he watched the group get into their cars. When they started their engines, he smashed the window of the car in front of him with the butt of his gun. He unlatched the door and got in.

Pulling the wires out from under the dashboard, he was about to hotwire the car. Before he cut them though, Root tapped his shoulder.

He raised to see the woman's grin. Root took a small magnet box from under the fender and tossed it to him.

"Thanks." Reese nodded as he started the car with the backup key kept in the box. He drove away, tailing the group.

"My pleasure," Root murmured at the leaving car.

"Is everything okay?" Finch asked, concerned.

"Everything's fine. John decided to go for a ride," Root replied, though her voice a little tight. She quickly sprinted across the street once all the cars had disappeared from her sight.

She looked for possible threats around her first. The street the store was on was rather quiet right now, with only a few cars driven by once in a while.

She grimaced at a parking lot camera not too far away from her, before she went into the store.

She stepped on broken glass pieces the moment she stepped in. She picked up one piece from the dark carpet, and noticed that a corner of it was coated in fresh blood.

She scanned the entire place. Everything seemed to be intact except a cue or two that indicated a struggle that had taken place here. The bloody glass piece, for example, and a fallen catalog with a shoe print on. A set of master keys for the cabinets fell behind the counter, and under them there was a pocket watch with its glass broken.

There were a few drops of blood on the wall behind the counter. She stared at them, her eyes narrowed. Before she did anything, Reese's voice came.

"I found their abandoned cars. Pursuing them to the interstate," he told her briefly and went quiet again.

"Okay, you do that," Root replied. "I'm gonna go check the back room."

With that she squeezed her gun and approached the half open door of the room in the back of the store.

She nudged the door open with her shoulder, pointing her gun immediately to her front. She scanned every corner, before she turned to check the other side of the room.

There was no one else, except herself and a floor covered with scattered jewelry pieces. Most of them were kept in separate bags with tags. A few though, had their bags torn. One of them was a pearl bracelet. A couple of pearls had fell off its string and rolled to the corner of the room.

"Finch, what's the order number of the locket _Alan Turing_ ordered for Diane?"

"Hold on. Let me pull out the details of the customer request for that order…" Finch murmured, going silent while typing, and Root checked several pieces of jewelry on the floor. She tossed them aside after having found out that none of them were lockets.

"It's TA470072," Finch told her shortly, and the woman started to looked for that piece.

She found no match, so she ran to check the pieces kept in the counters outside. She went through everything twice, before she finally concluded, "it's not here, Harry. They took it."

"Who took it?"

"A bunch of Decima agents. They were already here when John and I arrived. I think they kidnapped Jack, and took the locket."

"Decima agents? Are you sure?"

"Well I don't recognize any of them but they look like the ones working for Greer."

Finch paused briefly. "Let me find today's surveillance camera footage on its manufacturer's server. Maybe the Samaritan hasn't gotten to it yet. Okay here's today's video and maybe the Machine can track them once it identifies-oh dear."

Root waited for the man to explain why he had seemed to be shocked, but she got nothing. "What?" She asked, checking every corner of the store to make sure she hadn't missed anything.

"I think it is the best if you watch the footage too," Finch told her, his voice dry. "I am...emm...the Machine is running facial recognition programs on it."

Root tucked her hand into her pocket and pulled her buzzing phone out. She tapped the screen and started to watch the video, still having no idea why Finch seemed a little carried away.

The video started with the shop owner, Jack Willows, organizing his merchandize. An open catalog was on the counter right in front of him.

He took a pocket watch out from one tray. Before he had put it into another tray, a group of people with suits swarmed in through the door.

The shop owner, Jack Willows, yelled something at them, taking his phone out. One of the intruders raised their gun at the camera while the last two people went into the store. Then, the video went out.

Right before the video turned blank, the camera caught a glimpse of one of the two people in the video. It was merely a collection of pixels, but the moment she saw it, her heart began to slam violently against her ribcage. She couldn't breathe.

She hit the replay. Then again. Then for the third time. She watched the last second of the video over and over, until finally her voice came back to her.

"Shaw…?" That name slipped through her lips, and her chest clenched painfully at that sound. Her heart fluttered, bounced, and jumped, in joy, in fear, in excitement, and in pain, as if it was a trapped rabbit running desperately towards the distant light while being chased by a nameless monster.

She paused the video when Shaw's face showed up as she asked herself that question. Was that really Shaw? Or was that her imagination because the image of Shaw being gundown had haunted her since? She had tried so hard to convince herself, and the others, to believe that Shaw was still alive, yet now when she was looking at her side face on her phone, doubt and fear gloomed her heart.

"Root," Reese's voice interrupted her, and she almost dropped her phone while raising her gun in reflex.

"I...umm...I couldn't find the..." she muttered incoherently. For a while she was unable to decide whether to lower her gun first or to put her phone back into her pocket.

"They've killed Jack and dumped his body beside the east bridge," Reese told her. "I'll call Fusco."

"And that means they've got what they came here for. That locket must be something important," Root said as she slammed the side of her fist into the wall in great frustration.

"Yeah," Reese answered absentmindedly. He paused for a long time, before he said, "I saw Shaw sitting in one of their cars. None of them saw me but..."

Root swallowed her whimper back, her tears fell instead. "K," she mumbled. "You...saw her?"

"It was either her or her clone," Reese replied. "Seems that she's working with them."

The only thing Root managed to get out from her throat, was a shaking huff.

"Anyway, I stopped following them when it became too risky. We need to regroup and...do you need a ride?"

Root took a deep breath and put her gun back into its holster. "I'd rather take a walk, if you don't mind," she answered.

* * *

Quieting walking back to their hideout, Root stared at the sidewalk tile under her feet while Reese uncomfortable pulling his collar because there were a few drops of blood there.

At an intersection, they stopped for the pedestrian light. Reese glanced at Root, and said, "don't worry. "

"I am not," Root replied firmly, though her voice shaking a little. She tucked a strand of her loosened hair behind her ear, and looked away from the man. Tears started to sting her eyes again, and her fingers were quivering hard.

"Look on the bright side. She's still alive," Reese told her. "That's more than anything."

"Yeah, she's alive, and working for Decima. That's..." Root scoffed. "...great news."

"She's a trained intelligence operative. She would do anything to survive," Reese told her. "Good thing is that Decima and us seem to be looking for the same thing. I'm sure you'll see her again, and when you do, you can fire all your questions at her."

"Except that we've lost our guy, the locket. We have no idea what that locket is for, or who ordered that," Root murmured, throwing her hands into the air.

"Maybe we don't know what that locket is for, Ms. Groves," Finch interrupted them, "however we may not be absolutely clueless either."

"What did you find out, Finch?"

"I am looking for the camera footage from the day the order was made."

"Don't that type of cameras only keep their footage for a week or less?" Reese asked.

"Yes, they do, however the backup footage they sent to the manufacturer's server doesn't get deleted. They claim that they delete them every once in a while, but what they actually would do is to delete the index of the file only. That way it would appear to be gone from the system, but if you know where to look, you can find the file...okay, now I have it and-oh dear."

"Don't tell me that she's in it again," Root grunted.

"No, of course she's not," Finch replied. "It was Arthur Claypool. He was the one who made that order."

"So...he ordered a locket for his dead wife. He left a fake phone number and a fake name. He also never came by to pick it up. Why?" Reese asked.

"Maybe because of his memory loss?" Root suggested. "He could have forgotten about it."

"But, why did he give the jeweler a number that never has existed? Why would he leave Turing's name there, with his birthday as the phone number?"

"It could be a clue," Root said. "Or maybe he had already been suffering from memory loss when he made the order. Maybe he thought his wife was still alive and considered himself as Alan Turing."

"He sometimes couldn't remember things, but he was delusional," Finch said. "I think there's something to it. There's a reason why he made the order. If we could find the locket...maybe we could…hold on."

"What is it, Finch?"

"I found the 3D model of the locket in Jack's computer," Finch explained. "It seems that he's doing the designs using a software...I'm retrieving it from his computer and-wait, why would he want something like this engraved on a locket for his wife?"

" _Something like this_?"

"It-it's a pattern, a very..." Finch trailed off. Having noticed that both Root and Reese were waiting for him to elaborate, he continued, "I've seen this pattern before."


End file.
